


From Ashes come Flowers

by starsailor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bilbo POV, Bilbo-centric, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Other, Sad, Sad Bilbo, Thilbo, bagginshield, post-Battle of the Five Armies, post-BotFA, well then it turns kinda happy & hopeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2867345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsailor/pseuds/starsailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his love to the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins returns to the Shire, left with a garden of ashes and a heart lost to sorrow. A second/first-person narrative of Bilbo Baggins's return to the Shire after losing his love to the Battle of the Five Armies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Ashes come Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, whoever is reading this! I just wanted to let you all know that this is my first work (EVER) of fic or of prose, so please let me know what you think in the comments below. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Some say that ashes help flowers grow. 

In that case, battlefields must make great forests.

But, alas! that is not the case. For how can one part the shadow of grief from the innumerable tears that tread the crimson-soaked ground like rivers? It is difficult, nay, impossible. For forgetting sorrow is like tearing heartstrings, robbing them of the chance to ever sing again. 

Every step screams goodbye, as you walk away from the dawn of a life forgotten, into the waxing of a new day, which goads you with a chilling familiarity. If forgetting is moving on, then let me stay in this place forever, you think, and yet the words cannot fall from your lips, only parting to breath the sweet sunlight that should not glance over your skin. 

Your journey takes you back, where? you ask yourself. Home, or at least a hollow shell of one, a star with no light, a fire with no embers. And yet you continue, over hill and under starlight, yearning for a touch you never felt, a caress that follows you like a ghost, a hope that never survived to see daylight, and now lies…somewhere, most probably next to the shade of your heart’s window-seat. 

And there you let it sit. 

Until you reach a green that seems impossible, a path you never though you would see, a home that watches you with unfathomable eyes, welcoming you with a heart made of stone, a heart you once loved, yes. Yes, now you are home. 

And so the days wander, shadows lengthening, growing like children, running around your heart and your home, banging on your door, begging for you to let them come in, and you let them. But soon, the shadows lose their grip on your heart, and you kiss them farewell, a kiss that waited too long, lasted too soon, and gripped your hands too tightly. And as they fall into the tiles of sunlights that scatter across the smooth walls hugging the air around you, they dance, ever-present, unchanging, familiar, an embrace of memory your eyes see not, but understand. 

I understand, you say. 

Your heart is a battlefield, your eyes the war, your memory a…friend. So plant your trees, gentle soldier, and watch them grow, for the true measure of gold lies in its ability to forget, which you must remember. 

Love, be gentle, for those who never forget are the kindest of souls, and those who carry a garden of ashes in their heart always sing of acorns and oak trees, of fire and forgiveness, of sorrow and laughter. 

And on some days, the wind sings with them.


End file.
